


a word for us other than shame

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-21
Updated: 2010-10-21
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:44:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: It would be just his luck, if there were a cat burglar in his bedroom after three weeks in Timbuktu.





	

There are noises coming from his bedroom when he gets home. Eames pulls the Sig Sauer from his waistband holster and cocks it, dropping his bags at the door. He's been in Timbuktu for weeks, handling a job for an old friend, and the last thing he needs is a gunfight in the London apartment he only just finished furnishing.

"It would be just my luck if it were a cat burglar," he mutters to himself, crossing the hall on the balls of his feet and swinging the bedroom door open.

He almost drops the gun.

It's not a cat burglar.

"You're in my bed," he manages, clicking the safety on and laying the gun on the dresser. "You're _both_ in my bed."

"And about to start without you," Ariadne says, cheeky wench. "Do you know how long we've been waiting? Arthur made me watch _It Happened One Night_."

"Frank Capra is a genius," Arthur says. "And you love Clark Gable as much as I do, admit it."

"Well, yes," Ariadne concedes. "But that's not the point." It's so domestic an argument it makes Eames' teeth ache.

"You watched _It Happened One Night_ , in my bed, waiting for me," Eames says slowly, still trying to process the situation.

"Surprise," Arthur says dryly.

"What," says Eames.

"Surprise?" repeats Ariadne, face scrunched up like she doesn't know why he's confused.

"This is a threesome ambush," Eames says.

"Yes," Arthur replies.

"Yes," Ariadne confirms.

"And I am not dead?" Eames ventures. "Not asleep, not dreaming?"

"Totem," suggests Arthur, but he's also in the middle of taking off his t-shirt while Ariadne helps, and Eames' mouth goes dry.

"Fuck that," he breathes.

"Ooh, we were hoping so," says Ariadne. Cheeky wench.

"Cheeky wench," he says aloud, and it's her squeak of pleased surprise that does it. He doesn't care if he's dreaming, or dead, or if they'll all regret this later; he is tired and uncomfortably aroused and sex with women usually means cuddling afterwards and two bodies means a very warm morning wakeup and this is _exactly_ what he wants right now.

Arthur's looking at him, he realizes, looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes, sitting in the bed with Ariadne kneeling behind him, her small hands on his shoulders, and it's the most lovely thing Eames has ever seen. Arthur arches an eyebrow, a question without words, and he doesn't know how he's so close but suddenly he's on the bed, crawling towards them, and he hears Ariadne make a pleased mewling sound when his lips and Arthur's meet. It's quickly drowned out by the sound of his own groan when Arthur's hands slide up to cup his cheeks, Ariadne's fingers slipping between the two of them to tug at Eames' collar.

"Hell of an ambush," Eames whispers.

"Shut _up_ ," Arthur bites into his lips, before Ariadne pushes his face away to replace it with her own.

If this is a dream, Eames never, ever wants to wake up.

Between the three of them they manage to get each other naked and horizontal in record time. Eames is blindingly, achingly hard, brain short-circuiting with want and lust and need, and it's like the heavens have opened up and are raining warm, pale bodies around him. Ariadne's on one side, Arthur on the other, and Eames tries to laugh but it comes out breathless like a groan. Arthur does laugh, huffing into Eames' shoulder, and grips his hip hard enough to bruise.

"Good surprise," Ariadne asks, her hand worming between them, guiding him up and in, and Eames makes a strangled kind of yes noise because Arthur's fingers are questing between _them_ , warm and slick, and Eames is surrounded and this is it, this is all he's ever wanted and more than he could ask for, and he wants to stay in this place forever, rocking between them, until the sky falls down on the world. He's dimly aware of Arthur kissing Ariadne over his shoulder, Arthur's hands reaching down to tease at the place where Eames and Ariadne meet, Ariadne's breath going ragged and harsh in his ear. And Arthur presses harder against him which presses Eames further into _her_ , and it's the edge and they're tipping over and Ariadne cries out and Eames swallows it and Arthur bites his shoulder and by the time the ringing in Eames' ears dies away they're all in a boneless, sticky, sated heap.

"Hnngh," Eames says, eloquently.

"Mmm," Ariadne hums, crawling over Eames to wedge herself between him and Arthur. "Better," she sighs.

"Oof," Arthur contributes, shifting helpfully, catching hold of one of Eames' hands as Ariadne pushes them apart.

"For the record," Eames announces, "this was a _fantastic_ surprise."

"You say that like you think it's over," Ariadne mumbles into his shoulder, and Eames' heart does something funny in his chest.

"It's not?" he asks. He could understand if they wanted it to be a one time thing, if he's just the sometimes option. But she's talking like this arrangement could be semi-perminant, and refractory period be damned, he wants to start round two _right the fuck now_ , if that's the case.

Arthur growls before Eames can even begin to stir. "Of course it's not over, you moron. Now shut up and be Ari's big spoon and we'll keep her in the middle when we wake up tomorrow," he grumbles, and Eames' heart does that thing again, going all fluttery and strange.

"Yes, _sir_ ," he retorts, turning into Ariadne's back and reaching across her to stroke a broad swath across Arthur's hip with the flat of his palm. Arthur harrumphs, and Ariadne laughs, and Eames reaches back behind him to turn out the lamp.

Much better than three weeks in Timbuktu.


End file.
